Mona woke with a start as some part of the hotel’s plumbing bang, bang, banged its way into life. She checked her watch and groaned. Her brain held a vague memory of lying back on the bed, somewhere around 2am, aiming to close her eyes for a minute while her body summoned the energy to get changed and go to bed. Now, six hours later, she was waking up still in her clothes from the day before.
Stretching, she wandered over to the mirror to see exactly what the damage was. Crumpled trousers. Creased top, with a couple of sweat stains under each armpit for good measure. Stick a couple of twigs in her hair, and she’d have the whole through-a-hedge-backwards chic thing sewn up.
She wished she’d had the nerve to pack a full change of clothes, but she’d worried about incurring Paterson’s wrath if she brought a decent-sized bag. She showered, brushed her teeth, and sprayed half a can of Impulse all over. She put a new top on, and cursed her stupidity when she couldn’t find her hairbrush. Smoothing her hair with her hands, she returned to the mirror. It wasn’t great, but it was going to have to do until she could buy a comb.
Arriving downstairs, she found there was a limited range of options on the laminated breakfast menu that was pinned to the wall of the dining room. Anything more complicated than a bowl of cornflakes seemed to incur an additional cost, and she wasn’t sure if Paterson’s limited budget would spring for bacon and eggs. She turned to see an unsmiling woman with a notepad standing behind her.
‘Full English, please.’ Paterson would just have to lump it. She couldn’t walk the streets of the capital without a half-decent breakfast inside her. It was bad enough that she had to spend the day looking like a tramp, without spending it going hungry as well.
‘Please take a seat.’ The woman gave a wave in the general direction of the tables, and retreated to the kitchen.
‘Over here,’ Paterson shouted to her from a seat by the window. She was glad to see that he looked as crumpled as she was. ‘What did you order?’
‘The works.’
‘Good choice.’ Paterson pointed at his empty plate.
‘Can we afford two London breakfasts?’
‘Cameron Bloody Stuttle can reach into his personal slush fund and pay for them.’
She smiled, and yawned again.
‘Were you up all night on the Internet?’
‘Until the early hours.’
‘Any joy?’ asked Paterson.
Before she could answer, she heard the familiar sound of heels clicking in her direction. She turned to see Theresa bearing down on their table. In contrast to their dishevelment, Theresa looked as fresh as a daisy. Her hair was maintaining its Mrs Thatcher wave, her skirt was completely uncreased, and if Mona wasn’t mistaken, she had a fresh blouse on. Her handbag must have Tardis-like properties.
‘How is everyone?’ Without giving them time to answer, she moved on to her real area of concern. ‘Any word of Sandy?’
‘Sorry.’ The Guv shook his head. ‘I was out for a good few hours with Greg last night, seeing if anyone on the Embankment had spotted him. No luck, I’m afraid. I think he might have moved on.’
Theresa’s face fell. ‘Well, that’s really very disappointing.’
‘I may have a lead.’ At around 1.45 that morning, just as her eyes were beginning to feel like sandpaper every time she blinked, she’d come across the website of the Youth Today charity. Hidden within its fundraising pages she’d found an entreaty to ‘contact Maria’ if you wanted to get involved in raising money, next to a picture of what was unmistakeably the woman they were looking for. ‘I think I’ve found where Professor Bircham-Fowler’s daughter is working.’
‘What’s her surname?’
‘Didn’t get a surname, but there’s a picture of a Maria and I’m pretty sure it’s her. And I’m not too worried about the lack of name because either she’ll be at work or we can get it from her colleagues and . . . oh.’ Mona stopped as a large plate with a greasy selection of sausages and bacon was shoved in front of her. ‘Ehm, thanks,’ she said, to the retreating back of the waitress.
Paterson’s phone started to vibrate, bouncing around the table top.
‘Don’t recognise the number,’ he said, staring at the screen. ‘Hello? Yeah, Elijah. Hi.’
Mona and Theresa stared at each other as they tried to work out if Elijah was bringing good news or bad.
‘Is he hurt?’
Theresa let out a small sound, and gripped Mona’s arm. Mona could feel Theresa’s fingernails digging deeper into her skin, while Paterson uh-ed and yup-ed his way through the rest of the conversation.
‘OK, Elijah, many thanks for letting us know.’
He put his phone down on the table.
‘What . . .?’ began Theresa.
‘Don’t panic,’ he said, holding a hand up in her direction, ‘but Elijah has some news. He’s been asking around for us, and one of his clients thinks he saw the professor in an altercation with some, ehm, “gentlemen” late last night, somewhere near King’s Cross station.’
Theresa’s hands shot to her lips. ‘Oh, poor, poor Sandy. Was he hurt?’
‘Don’t think so. According to Elijah’s source, the professor was asking if anyone had seen a particular woman – Maria, obviously – and was paying for information. He got his wallet out to give cash to a couple of King’s Cross charmers, and the inevitable happened.’
‘They stole his wallet?’
‘Yup. Elijah’s contact didn’t think he was hurt, but he is now out there without any money.’
‘Time to call it in, do you think, Guv?’ Mona put down her knife and fork, her appetite suddenly gone.
‘What do you mean “call it in”?’ Theresa frowned. ‘Do you mean give up?’
‘No, I’m not thinking about giving up,’ said Paterson. ‘But I do think that we need to talk to my boss about involving the Met.’
‘And have it leaked all over the news by the end of the day?’ The waitress who had been heading toward their table heard Theresa’s tone, and made a quick retreat. ‘We might as well just kiss Sandy’s reputation goodbye right now.’
‘See sense, Theresa. Up until now we haven’t had any information that he’s in danger, but now we’re pretty sure he’s been involved in an altercation, probably been mugged. He’s an absent-minded professor, not a streetwise teenager, and now he’s wandering the streets of London without any money.’
‘No, he’s not.’
They both looked at Theresa in surprise. ‘Sandy is not as much of an innocent abroad as you two seem to think.’
‘Really?’
Theresa fixed a stern eye on Paterson. ‘Sandy was a visiting lecturer in New York in the eighties, back at the height of its crime wave. I’m sure you can remember the stories about what it was like. In those days everyone had a tale about the time that they were mugged, or had a knife pulled on them. Sandy himself had several hair-raising encounters in the subway. But it taught him a thing or two about life, and since then he’s always carried a mugger’s purse, full of cash but nothing else. He’ll still have his cards on him.’
Paterson looked sceptical. ‘Maybe, if they didn’t give him a good kicking and steal those too.’
‘And Sandy always has an emergency £20 note hidden where no muggers would ever look.’
The Guv pulled a face. ‘I think that counts as too much information.’
She tutted. ‘I was referring, Mr Paterson, to his sock.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, we need to find him.’
Paterson didn’t move.
‘We could have a quick scout round King’s Cross before we phone, Guv?’
He considered this. ‘OK, we’ll give it until lunchtime before I phone Stuttle. I’ll check in with Greg for any incidents at King’s Cross. You two follow up the daughter angle.’